


Work Song

by orphan_account



Category: Naruto
Genre: ANBU - Freeform, Conduits, I can't ever write long things, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prose I guess, Psychotropic Drugs, dissapointment?, dunno, neurosis and psychosis, okay i'm done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We sing most when we are unhappy. The songs of a Shinobi represent the sorrows of his heart; he is relieved by them, only as a aching heart is relieved by it's tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackMajjicDuchess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/gifts).



Shisui,

Some sort of alarm should have rung in my head when shooting up felt equivalent to eating my favorite breakfast food. When I stopped fearing the imaginary shadows in the forest and the enemy simply became a walking cadaver. I should have said something when I did not understand “It”.

“It” being my humanity.

But, I’m not a maverick and like any other shinobi I unfortunately have my pride. I wish I could tell myself I didn’t have to keep my back so straight all the time and that sleeping past eight on a day off is perfectly acceptable. We were just kids thrown into an adult war, until we weren’t kids anymore. Back then, I had only begun to touch the surface of a world that was unfamiliar and the more and more I ventured the less and less real it was, to the point of watching myself through a stranger's eye. It was terrifying, but also a unhelpful burden that I regret bringing upon myself.

These days music is a conduit.

Bonsai trees are a conduit.

My father calling me is a conduit.

Everything becomes a conduit for having or not having another panic attack.

In the locker rooms I hear phrases like “bootstraps” over and over again until I wish I had some to hang myself with. My night-terrors become sleepless nights spent in the armory and uniform distribution office; polishing ergo re-polishing the ensuing night. Taking Crane’s night shift to distribute freshly ordered uniforms is my new pastime.

But then it passes, as all things do, and the gap between meals and sunlight and anxiolytic doses and family grow too wide until involuntary collapse occurs.

I am unable to tell you aloud that your smile makes me forget all of my problems, or that our time spent together is nothing short of a dream. And that I secretly love when you wear turtlenecks in the winter, and nothing in the summer.  

However, sitting here, writing you this note that may or may not reach your hands has made me realize that someone who thinks death is the scariest thing doesn’t know a thing about life.


End file.
